


Abelard's Inferno

by Dani



Category: RPF - 12th century
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dani/pseuds/Dani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Abelard spends his last days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abelard's Inferno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/gifts).



Abelard sucked in another harsh breath.  He had never noticed how smoky his world was until it was painful to breathe in it.  He leaned back against the pillows stacked behind his back, keeping him upright to aid his breathing.

They were useless.

Smoke danced in the air before Abelard’s eyes, illuminated by the flickering flames from the fireplace.

As night wore on, his eyes slipped shut while his lungs continued to burn.

 

It was almost as though he were floating.  For a brief time there was no pain in his lungs; merely tingling.  It was pleasant.

A soft voice broke through the painless void. “Abelard.”

Abelard burrowed deeper into the warmth surrounding him.  He was content where he was.

“Abelard, you need to eat something, and the doctor needs to check on your breathing.”

There was no point trying to sleep now.




Abelard cracked one eye open, squinting into the light coming from the window.  It must be morning...and there was Peter, with his face far too close for a normal conversation. 

Peter had a bad habit of standing far too close; it was to compensate for his other bad habit which was to speak far too softly. 

“Peter, I’m trying to sleep,” Abelard complained, but didn’t bother closing his eyes again.

“You have to at least drink some water, please,” Peter softly insisted, in his calm, patient tone: the one he used when he knew he was going to get his way if he just kept asking politely.

“I don’t want to,” Abelard grumbled.  He knew he was being petulant, but he was sick and therefore it was his prerogative. 

“Abelard,” Peter’s voice was still soft, but there was an edge of steel in it this time. 

Abelard took a deep breath, wincing at the feeling, and sat up a little straighter.  “Fine, I’ll take the water.”

The bright beaming smile, that he should have grown out of when he was twenty, appeared on Peter’s face as he hurried to do as requested.

The doctor appeared beside him, motioning him forward. 

Abelard leaned forward further still, but refused to otherwise shift.  If the doctor was going to torture him, he would at least be relatively comfortable during the process. Why doctors felt the overwhelming need to poke their patients where they felt the most pain had always eluded Abelard.  He finally decided simply that it was the profession best suited to sadists and left it at that.

Finally, after several painful moments, the doctor was satisfied and Abelard was given his water.  He was left to drink while Peter and the doctor talked alone, because heaven forbid he actually be told about his condition.

The water did nothing for his lungs, but it did sooth his sore throat so he drank heartily.

It was bad news, Abelard could tell the moment Peter walked back into the room.  He let the door close heavily behind him; Peter didn’t like the sounds the doors made when they shut like that, so he was always diligent in closing them softly behind him.  Not this time though.

Abelard never realized what a good actor Peter was until this moment.  Despite the slip with the door, Peter approached calmly, almost casually.  He smiled softly and carefully wiped some excess water from Abelard’s lip. 

Abelard felt his stomach fill with warmth and gratitude, and his eyes grew moist.  Most of his friends were afraid to be associated with him now, but Peter offered him sanctuary.  It pained him now to think that he had never taken Peter seriously; had always seen him as naive and idealistic. 

“Thank you,” He said, hoping to express at least some of his feelings.

Peter shrugged, smiling.  “It’s only a little water, Abelard.  Would you like to try a little fruit?  The orchards were quite plentiful this year.”

Abelard sighed, but nodded, taking the offered apple slices.

Peter watched carefully while Abelard consumed the entire apple.  Satisfied, he nodded to himself and stood to gather the dishes.

Abelard caught his hand without thinking, stilling it.  “Peter…” His tone was urgent.  “Thank you.” He desperately wanted Peter to understand, but couldn’t think of any other way to express it. 

Peter just looked at him for a moment, searching for some invisible mystery.  His lip twitched upward slightly, but his eyes looked heartbroken.  He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Abelard’s brow.  “You’re always welcome with me.”  Peter turned to go again.

“Stay?” Abelard did not know why he asked; Peter was busy and couldn’t possibly have the time to sit at an invalid’s bedside.  His stomach still plummeted when Peter glanced anxiously at the door.

“All right,” he agreed after a moment of hesitation.  He slipped under the cover and wrapped an arm around Abelard’s shoulders.  “I can spare a few moments.  While I’m here, I can tell you about my research.”

Abelard sighed and almost regretted his request.  Peter loved to trap people into hearing about his newest projects...but he was also warm, and Abelard hadn’t felt this comfortable since he first became ill. “Muslims?” he asked, both expecting and dreading the answer.

“Of course. You know, they are actually a very interesting people...” Peter began.

Abelard buried his face in Peter’s shoulder and drifted off to sleep again.

 

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”  It had taken days for Abelard to ask, days spent in his own personal Gethsemane before he was ready to hear the answer.

Peter looked up from his reading and slowly lowered the book onto the small table.  He didn’t look like he was truly ready for this conversation either.  “The doctor doesn’t know how to cure your illness.  He says it’s too advanced for his medicines.”

Abelard nodded, understanding the words but not feeling any of the fear or hopelessness he was expecting.  He felt nothing, complete emptiness.

“I’ve been checking our herbals though, there might be something in them that the doctor isn’t aware of,” Peter said in a rush, gesturing at the book.

Abelard could tell that he didn’t truly believe it, but was clinging to this last hope for both their sakes.  “Will you be my confessor?” 

Peter was completely silent.

“Peter, there are things that I have never confessed before that need to be dealt with.  Will you be my confessor?”

Peter bit his lip.  He didn’t want to agree, because to agree would mean admitting that this was truly happening, that Abelard was truly dying.  “I don’t think I’m the right choice for this,” he said, his voice a hair away from breaking.

“Peter, my teachings have been condemned as heretical by Rome; there is absolutely no one else who would be willing to do this for me.” Desperation began to tighten around his heart.  It had never occurred to him that Peter might not agree.  “I can accept dying: everyone dies; but I cannot go to the grave with these on my conscience.  Peter, please.”

Peter closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw against a small quiver. He swallowed and looked at Abelard again. “Tomorrow.” He tripped over the word. “I need to pray today, and make my own confession.”

Abelard nodded, satisfied; and Peter returned it – if for no other reason than that it seemed to conclude the conversation – and, since it _was_ finished, he got up and made his way out of the room. The door rumbled in his wake: he forgot again, to shut it gently.

Abelard stared at the ceiling and coughed through the night.

 

It was awkward and tense sitting there, Peter in his chair and Abelard on the bed, neither saying a word.  They had gone through the motions, both saying their scripted lines with perfect accuracy, but now they were at the moment of truth, the moment of actual confession.  Suddenly, Abelard had no idea what to say.

“Where should I start?” Abelard asked, looking to his friend for guidance.

Peter looked away, and shifted uncomfortably.  “Why are you asking me?  It’s your confession.”

Abelard crossed his arms.  “Well, you already know some of it...”

Peter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  The only gesture of frustration Peter ever allowed himself.  “Abelard, right now I’m not your friend, I’m a stand in for God, so at this moment I don’t ‘know some of it’.”

Abelard snorted.  “Peter, I’m fairly certain that God knows most of this as well....and if he doesn’t, then you and I have been thoroughly duped.”

“Why are you bothering to confess then?” Peter snapped, regretting it immediately.

“I don’t know, who’s asking? My friend Peter, or my God?”  His voice was filled with laughter, but tension was coiling in his stomach.  This could either end very well or very poorly.

Peter stared at him. One moment became two, and then three, and then finally, his lip quirked and he let out a quick breath.  That breath became a chuckle, and then he relaxed in his chair.  “It’s no wonder that Bernard hates you; you can be infuriating sometimes,” but his tone was light and a smile lingered on his face.

The smile drooped on Abelard’s face and then slipped away altogether, though he tried to hide his change of mood with a coughing fit.  “That’s not exactly why he hates me.”

Peter folded his hands in his lap, looking serious again.  “Maybe that’s where we should start, then.”

Abelard winced.  “All right.”  He took a sip of his drink and then began.  “It began after my...attack.”

“Your castration?” Peter clarified.

“Yes, that.  I had physically recovered, but emotionally I was furious.  I was angry at the world, angry at God.  It was only later that I realized it was my punishment, but we’ll get into that later.  Now Bernard; Bernard is an arrogant ass, as you well know.”

Peter pursed his lips but didn’t argue.

“We were never going to be friends, far too much ego between the two of us, but he hated me right from the very beginning.  He spent far too much time listening to good Master William bad-mouthing me, his former protégé, to ever have any sort of congenial or even polite interaction—”

“You’re stalling.”

“Sorry…”

 

***

 

It went better than Abelard had expected.  Though Peter already knew some of his past, Abelard had still felt a niggling of fear.  Peter had taken the news of his past as a fornicator and philanderer with professional courtesy and had promptly forgiven him.

Peter didn’t assign any penance though.  He didn’t hand out a punishment, didn’t even demand Abelard pray more.  He’d just forgiven him.  Despite the ceremony being complete, and the proper words being spoken, the heaviness on his heart remained.  It burdened him, and he couldn’t help but feel that he couldn’t be forgiven without more suffering.

 

The pain was back in full force.  He was coughing without ceasing, and he couldn’t get a breath. 

Peter and the doctor were scrambling about, desperately forcing concoctions down his throat.  None of them did any good, they just left him more exhausted.

Abelard wasn’t even truly coughing anymore, he didn’t have the air to do it.  He was simply choking on what little breath he could achieve.

“Peter, I think this is it,” The doctor whispered.

If Abelard had been able to speak, he would have shouted “I’m sick, not deaf!” As it was, all he could do was glare.

Peter took his hand and squeezed it tightly. 

The world was spinning around him, faster and faster.  Abelard focused on Peter, made him the center of the spiral.  “Peter, I-” Abelard tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

Peter brought Abelard’s hand up to his mouth and rubbed a kiss along the knuckles.  “We’ll be together again.  This time in the presence of our Lord.”

The burning in his lungs was replaced by a new kind of pain, a different kind - The kind that ate your insides and left you weeping.  Would they see each other again?  “I don’t know,” he coughed.

He saw Peter close his eyes, fighting back tears, and then—


End file.
